


ataraxia

by arthurr



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception, Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthurr/pseuds/arthurr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will meets Beverly his freshman year at university. Things change from there.</p><p>Inception!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"We must believe then, that as from hence we see Saturn and Jupiter; if we were in either of the Two, we should discover a great many Worlds which we perceive not; and that the Universe extends so in infinitum."

-Cyrano de Bergerac

 

* * *

 

Will Graham meets Beverly Katz in college, where she decides to sit directly next to him in a sea of open desks; she is a storm compacted into an eighteen year old. He glances at her cappuccino brown leather jacket, the soft cut of it butter smooth, and her long hair frames her honest face in waves. And he can’t help it, his gaze cutting into her, his empathy zeroing in cold and fast. Her vividness, evidenced in the animation of her face and the power in her shoulders, tells of an exuberant and goodnatured soul.

At the first indication of his neutrality in what seems to be the war between students that is freshman year, she takes it upon herself to introduce herself, shake his hand, and then remark with mirth that his copy of _Criminalistics_ looks a lot like him, tired but pretty. He cedes a short smile.

Somehow, they manage to stick together.

Beverly is a true Boston girl, sans the accent that she claims "is a not a ubiquitous thing," though sometimes he hears the errant skip of the "r." (In exchange, he lets his Louisiana show on special occasions.) Her transition to Cambridge makes sense, and Will really can see why she chooses to stay close to home. He sees fire in her, easy and slow to burn, that is especially apparent the one time she manages to drag him across the Charles to Fenway Park, where she, clad in her Sox jersey and hat, barrels through throngs of drunk men with the power of a very large planet. She also takes him to ImprovBoston on the anniversary of his father's death to cheer him up, but they don't talk about that. It really is a wonder that Beverly, the hurricane of a girl that she is, attaches herself to him.

"You're really kinda a pessimistic guy, aren't ya?" she comments when he manages to uncoil enough to voice this to her. She thumbs through _The Jungle_ as they sit together in the Old Yard, beneath the red and orange spray of leaves. "You're simple. Wait. Scratch that. You're definitely a challenge, Graham, but talking to you doesn't come with a price."

"It costs you your popularity," Will reasons as three juniors from his inorganic chemistry course snicker at his attire, his hunched position, and his unwillingness to engage with the general populace. His eyes skitter across the lawn to flicker between Beverly's cheekbones.

She purses her lips for a moment. A sudden, raucous grin bisects her face. "If I cared about popularity, you one hundred percent know I would be the most popular person on this goddamn campus. I'm a fucking selective goddess, and don't you forget that, ya doofus."

Will learns that Beverly's joviality only looks perpetual, that, like anything else, it crests and troughs. Sometimes, he can see it behind the curtains, those nights when she sleeps against his shoulder at Trident Bookstore, and he dares a slip into the depths of her. He sees Beverly has a friend, a best friend, who is not him. The evidence is scattered everywhere, in the _Saturday Night_ _Live_ sticker on her violin case to the hundreds of pictures backed up on her phone, computer, and tablet that she refuses to delete despite her technology heaving in its desire for some relief. Her dorm's wall is papered with a few posters of bands she likes and a couple he knows she doesn't; he's sure she isn't a fervent fan of Radiohead, though the poster of Queen may be something different altogether. He also sees a small chasm, a little canyon, where her enduring hunger for knowledge lies. It’s a fickle thing, temperamental like a greedy god. It also is what makes Beverly so efficient and able to see him in his flaws and his dreams and his goddamn empathy.

She’s always pissed at him, whenever he makes self-deprecating jokes about said empathy, as if she’s the only one in the world who gets to tease him the way she does, the only one in the world allowed to be sarcastic about his obvious but never spoken about issues. He doesn’t really understand what is so wrong about accepting himself in his current state. His current state being, of course, the knife’s edge of stability.

Beverly is sure to tell him, at least once a week, sometimes more when she’s feeling particularly daring, “You know, you can’t always be doing this to yourself. Someday, someone is going to see through all that muddled up shit, and you are going to see right through theirs, and don’t you fucking say you see through everybody’s because you very well know that’s not what I mean. Someday, someone is going to see right into that wicked mind of yours, then you’ll see.”

“Don't you?” Will always wants to ask, "See me?"

But by then, Beverly will be texting her friends, smiling away at that phone of hers, and beckoning Will to come along on whatever adventure she’s planning.

 

* * *

 

When autumn turns its face towards winter on a chilly November day, Will spots Beverly essentially pile drive a male student onto the grassy lawn. He is alarmed for all of five seconds before he hears her laugh, tangled with his bewildered exclamations.

She, in turn, smiles wide and instant as she hones in on Will’s confused face from fifty feet away. The man sprawled on the grass turns onto his stomach, unseating her and instigating yet another flurry of flying limbs and rowdy squabbling.

"Will! This is – oh my god, just stop for like a second – Brian Zeller, best friend and neighbor."

Will quirks a brow as Brian scrambles to his feet. The man is their age, his brown hair ruffled and spotted with bits of grass and leaves from his altercation with Beverly. The grey henley and jeans sit neatly on his tall, lanky frame, and the easiness of his nature bleeds like liquid nacre, bookended by something sharper and more wry.

"I've heard about you. You're apparently a difficult case to crack," he jokes.

Will's eyes flicker to Beverly's, taking stock of her barely contained joy dimming a little in apprehension, hoping that Will could just please make an effort to engage.

"Well, we all know that Beverly is the best at what she does."

"Damn right I am, Graham. Mr. UCLA here is just dying to hear about all our adventures, and I am hungry as hell."

Will isn't optimistic about a second friendship.

 

* * *

 

They spend too much money on overpriced food and drink at Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market. Sprawled on a bench by the harbor, stomaches full and wallets a little lighter from Beverly's urgings to eat more and drink more, Will sits close to Brian's side. The man is warm, and the wind is forgiving. Beverly has her head pillowed in Brian's lap on the other side. She reaches up at a passing gull overhead, thumbing at its silhouette.

"Bet ya missed this, huh? Bet California doesn't have stupid historical shit and stupid hordes of college students."

Brian smiles. "The CSU's and UC's, if you remember, are great for hordes of college students. And California has wildly annoying and incorrect gold rush shit."

"It isn't as incorrect as that Evil Minds Research Museum," Will interjects without a modicum of self-restraint.

Beverly's laugh is choked and snorting, carrying over the sound of the waves and Brian's rolling eyes.

"You've only mentioned that once, Graham, and I'm already sick of hearing you say it, no matter how refreshing it is to hear you actually be passionate about something."

Will tilts his chin skyward. He takes in the city lights through his closed lids. "It's stupid. Everything is stupid. Stupid name, feeding a stupid culture that tries to make ethics their aesthetics but always fail."

The buildings glow rich behind them. To their left, a group of Northeastern students titter along, sending sidelong glances towards Beverly and giggling with blushes smeared across the tops of their cheeks. She ignores them, smiling wide and with gravity.

"One of my lecturers named that museum," Brian mutters, belatedly offended and a little flustered.

"He's stupid, as Will would say," Beverly offers.

"He's smart. He's like actually brilliant, guys. A bit scary. But really smart."

"The naming of that museum indicates a fundamental misunderstanding of the human relationship to ethics and general desire to increase tourism, not education. What a hook, 'Evil Minds.' It's akin to Boston College's stupid name. Isn't it in Newton? It's an approximate name. Barely enough."

Beverly just chuckles. She is not dismissive, Will appreciates. She touches a couple of fingers to Brian's chin.

"Graham is giving you a run for your money, smarty."

Brian pouts and swats away her hand. "Jack Crawford really is smart... He's doing a lecture at BU tomorrow, and I'm dragging your pretentious asses to it just to spite y'all."

“You’re a fuckin’ nerd, you know that? On Thanksgiving break and you make us think, like a fucking ass.”

“Shut up. It’s going to be a bomb lecture. You already saw the flyers. It’s about dreams and psychology and the tie to the damn conscious world."

Will contemplates the ocean before him, the vastness of the Atlantic. The gentle roll of motion across the surface settles him as Beverly and Brian bicker and snipe. He contemplates slipping under the swing of his mental pendulum. It would be so easy, to see the machinations of either Beverly's or Brian's minds. Just before he can view either of them, he is centered again by Brian's hand on his shoulder. Will's eyes float across the subtle freckles across his nose like small moons.

"The fuck, man," Brian whispers. His gaze flickers to Will's soft, short curls and settles unsteadily somewhere along his clean shaven jaw. "Son of a bitch, I am drunk."

 

* * *

 

Jack Crawford, as it turns out, stands tall and solid. His shoulders reflect years of hard work, stress, and a career dealing with the complex system that is the human mind. His voice fills the auditorium easily – Will thinks the microphone could really be a formality – and his confidence settles thick like snow mutes a field. The hard lines of his expression and demeanor work in harmony and in contradiction with the softness beneath it all. There is a special sort of congeniality and righteousness that supersedes the present need to be dominant.

During this, Brian, Will, and Beverly sit somewhere off to the side of the room. It doesn't go unnoticed, however, the way Brian maneuvers himself to be in clear eyeshot of his professor. Beverly hides a smirk behind her palm.

"The mind is an ecosystem. We must remember that. Each part is dependent on the other to function. Someone, anyone, name some theoretical parts," Crawford prompts.

A girl Will recognizes from his chemistry class raises her hand brazenly, shooting a snide glance in his direction. "Id, ego, superego. If we think of the mind in terms of impulse and decision, we could separate it like this."

Will thinks it's a juvenile answer.

Crawford chuckles and quirks an eyebrow to his left where his chemist associate, a grad student from Berkeley named James Price whose mind may as well be an open book, laughs. "Close. Think bigger. Think-"

Will's hand is in the air out of sheer spite. He practically bites out, "Dreams. Our dreams. Our impulses. The impressions people leave on us. Our ethics. Our emotions. Our secrets. And so on. A mire that proceeds to change perennially."

Brian's eyes are wide. Beverly's are mildly surprised. The rest of the auditorium, however, has rolled theirs in disbelief.

Crawford's smile is a stunned one, glossed over with sheer delight. Price has taken to staring directly at Will with so much hope in his eyes that it makes him squirm in his seat.

"Yes. Precisely. Minds are an enigma, composed of all of those things and more. Sometimes they overpower us. The sum of these parts, when put together wrong, can be devastating. A self destructive ecosystem, if you will," he elaborates. He then turns to address Will directly, "And what is your name, son?"

"Will Graham."

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graham. Academia is lucky to have you in its ranks. Your brand of thinking bigger is something we always need." A pause. "Tell me, how did you come to your answer?"

He keeps his eyes fixed to Crawford's tie. "The mind is akin to intricate art. When viewing art, say, _Guernica_ , it must be observed in light of its many parts. Without that, this Picasso is a mess. Interpretation and navigation becomes near impossible. I like to think that the mind is more complex than a simple few labels."

Crawford regards him, pensive. "Well, _Guernica_ is a quite graphic illustration."

"The mind is a graphic place," he reasons.

Price interjects, immediately intrigued, "Tie that to dreams."

Will's eyes snap to his, or as close as he allows them to. "Excuse me?"

"What does the mind, or what you say is the mind, have to do with the nature of dreams?"

Before he can even come up with something to say, Brian has his hand up.

"Ah, Mr. Zeller. Far from UCLA, no?" Crawford congenially begins.

"Yeah, I'm uh f-from here."

Beverly is the perfect semblance of poise and calm attentiveness. Will knows she is internally herniating herself at Brian's awkwardness.

Price asks again. "What does this have to do with dreams?"

"Dreams are fragmented pieces of our minds. They're sewn together in the unconscious to create an ecosystem with its own rules both dependent upon and independent from reality," Brian mutters.

Beverly interjects, "Dreams have coherence and their own rules. They're lucid even when they're not. Physics and chemistry are still relevant, just warped."

The room is quiet. Crawford paces slowly to stand next to Price, who raises an eyebrow. Brian shakes his leg nervously. Beverly almost stops him. Will trains his eyes carefully to Crawford's tie.

"Graham, Zeller, and... Zeller's companion," he mutters, "be sure to check your emails. Your insight is valuable."

Will feels a quite peculiar sensation. The room feels suspended in the moment, where everything changes and nothing really changes at all. The rising of certain potential. Beverly seems to feel it too – or, at least, she senses Will's unease – and she passes him a note.

_You good, big shot?_

He supposes he is.

 

* * *

 

To: Will Graham <grahamw@harvard.edu>

CC: Beverly Katz <bevkatzz@harvard.edu>, Brian Zeller <brizell@ucla.edu>, Jimmy Price <jjprice@berkeley.edu>, Alana Bloom <alanabloommd@georgetown.edu>

From: Jack Crawford <jcraw@leo.gov>

Subject: Summer Internship – Quantico, VA

> To Whom It May Concern,
> 
> You have been chosen to partake in a summer internship under the supervision of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, taking place in Quantico, the location of the Academy. You have all exhibited exceptional understanding of the human psyche. From May 15 to August 15, you will work with Jimmy Price and Alana Bloom, among other prominent figures in the scientific community in order to tackle the criminal, the benign, and the truly unknown.
> 
> Please read, sign, and mail the attached forms (ATTN: Jack Crawford, BAU) before December 10.
> 
> Remember, this is a very select group, and we have picked only the best. Congratulations.
> 
>  
> 
> Jack Crawford
> 
> Agent-In-Charge
> 
> Federal Bureau of Investigation: Behavioral Science Unit
> 
> (571) 555-2368 ext. 8174
> 
>  
> 
> Attached: IntroductionBAU.pdf, Contact.pdf, Financ.pdf, NonDisc.pdf, Itinerary.docx

 

* * *

 

Will, Beverly, and Brian are given the privilege of a private car on the train to Quantico. It isn't like Will has much to do with his summer anyway.

 

* * *

 

Quantico isn't too special, Will surmises. The sky is a flat sheet of eggshell blue, and the humidity floods the air just enough to ride the edge of uncomfortable and painful. It smells like hot asphalt.

He hauls his large duffel to the dorm building – a grey eyesore, really – and waits out front.

Cadets pass to and fro, rushing to this class or that lecture or that training exposé, wearing regulation attire. Will tries not to think about how his standard don't-look-at-me outfit does not quite cut it here.

The entire situation is intensely uncomfortable, but it is alleviated by the sight of an approaching Beverly pulling along an anxious Brian. Cadets stare like Beverly is a barrel of salt water in the middle of a horde of thirsty survivors. They're drawn to her exuberance and her energy. Somehow, though, she is untouchable. Brian is the afterthought.

Will lets out a shuddering breath as they near. Brian looks awed at Beverly and at the prospect of studying with the FBI, and it presses into his chest with a cloying sort of helplessness he is eager to shake off. Luckily, he is saved by the gentle voice of a woman.

"Students, I trust your journey was uneventful," a woman just emerging from the dorms greets.

She is a woman of moderate stature, elegant and smart in her clean cut pantsuit and kitten heels. Her eyes sweep over the three of them, and Will is startled to find that her eyes linger a second too long on him.

"My name is Alana Bloom. I consult with the FBI, teach at Johns Hopkins, and am a guest lecturer here at Quantico. For the next few months, however, you will be working with me, not under me. I'll guide you, but our research here is best done collaboratively."

Beverly asks speculatively, "What sort of research? I know Professor Crawford is a psychology expert, but I'm majoring in Chemistry, and Will here talked the dean into letting him make his own Forensics track."

Alana smiles, demure, "Well, you'll just have to wait for our first session. I'll take you to your rooms. Drop your bags off, and meet me back here as soon as you can. I'll take you to the main building, and you'll get your full overview there."

Will is a little peeved to find out that Brian is his roommate, but pats Beverly on the back when he finds out she's alone.

They walk with Alana in silence to another massive and grey complex. Cadets stare even more here, and it's blatant. Will hunches his shoulders even more, and feels something like fear push at his jaw. Brian walks a little closer to him, pulling Beverly subtly by a bit of her sleeve at her elbow. Alana is nonplussed and calm.

They stop, after passing through several doors with pass codes and high clearance requirements, in front of a conference room. Crawford sits inside next to another man, both with their backs turned to them.

People in lab coats stare even here.

Alana begins, "We are going to study dreams, putting it simply. Jack is leading the PASIV Project 2.0. All of you signed nondisclosure agreements, so it goes unsaid that everything you learn here is not to be discussed." She opens the door, and motions for them to sit around the large center table. "You were chosen because of your potential. Don't think that you're not replaceable if you break your word."

Will fixes his eyes to Beverly's hands, solid and sure despite the sudden and swift descent of Alana's words. He can almost feel Brian's nervous energy radiating from him.

Crawford smiles congenially at the three of them. "You all know me. I know you're all going to be formal with me, but I'd like for you to call me Jack. This is Doctor Lecter. He is here to facilitate the project, as well as cultivate a network of trust between us and you. We'll be working with sensitive materials, so trust is key."

"I'm going to perform a private psychological exam on each of you later tomorrow. It will be cursory, just to determine your mental fitness. This project may be destabilizing, and it is important that each of you knows where you stand," Lecter explains. Will clenches his fists and looks resolutely away from him. "Not fond of eye contact?"

Will's eyes are dragged up to rest on his. The man has high cheekbones, regal and proud, against his angular face. The first beginnings of grey hairs appear at his temples, but he is otherwise a relatively young man. A man just out of his residency, perhaps. His first impression of him is a blank slate. He doesn't trust him.

"Eyes are too distracting; they say too much. Especially here, where no one here has stopped staring."

Lecter's expression slips for a fraction of a second in surprise. "For someone who isn't fond of eye contact, you are keenly observant of the eye."

Will turns to look through the glass behind him. A crowd of lab coats of gathered to openly stare at them. His gaze flits back and forth from Hannibal's chin to Beverly's hands in trepidation.

"Can't help it when the eye reveals so much."

Alana abruptly stands up and nods at Jack. The walls of the room begin to shake when the slow, deep sound of one of Chopin's Nocturnes begins to rock them. Will reaches for Beverly, who reaches for Brian, who clutches at them both.

The world rumbles with the slow music, and the ceiling begins to fold in like paper.

Brian yells, "Oh, son of a bitch!" just as the world folds away, subsumed into the black behind their eyelids.

 

* * *

 

Will opens his eyes. Out the train window, he can see the green of the New England forests on the way to Quantico. The hum and creak of the Amtrak turns and pirouettes, subtle, just above the threshold of conscious noticeability. In front of him, Beverly and Brian grasp each other's hands; both are pale and gasping. Beverly pulls him even closer to herself when they hear the ruffling of clothing. Bewildered, Will turns to see Jack, Alana, and Doctor Lecter sitting placid next to them, hooked up to a briefcase-sized machine. Doctor Lecter comes to first.

“Ah, Will. It is most unfortunate for us to meet under such circumstances, but I am afraid that they are entirely necessary,” he says. It’s infuriatingly nonchalant. “Before you retaliate, may I remind you that you have signed explicit nondisclosure agreements along with several other contracts, so measure your reactions wisely.”

Brian openly gapes, and huffs out, “What the fuck. What the fuck!”

Jack smiles. “Consider that your introduction to psychological research. Military grade. Grounds for treason should you choose to release any of this information to anybody.”

He looks to Alana who rolls her eyes. “See, Jack, you’re scaring them.” She turns to address them. “That was a little taste of what you’ll be studying with us. Of course, it’s all safe. There’s minimal risk to your and your psyches.”

“Why do it this way,” Beverly motions to the IV lines, “when you could have just told us at the Academy? Kinda forceful and nonconsensual, if you ask me. And who were all those other people?”

“Those were projections, recreations of people apart from the actual participants of the dream. We suspected that you would decline. You three are the only three candidates for this project, and it is difficult to find such open and malleable minds such as yours,” Lecter explains. 

Will crosses his arms, trying to shake off the residual grogginess. ‘You’re studying lucid dreams, right? Explains the control. What can you get from us that you can’t with others?”

Jack looks out the window. “There are particular skill sets to this type of work that extend beyond your comprehension. Looking into each of your backgrounds, you have specific… abilities that will help in the long run with this type of thing. Everyone can use this device, the PASIV, but not everyone can use it to their advantage. That’s where you three come in.” He points at Beverly. “Your background in chemistry is useful. You’re analytical. Good at researching. You don’t miss things. Zeller is pretty good at chem, too. Not great at psychology. And you, Will, your gift is-“

“Jack.” Alana shakes her head. She changes the subject. “That dream was Jack’s, and all of us were participants. And, as you can probably tell, we exit to Chopin. We’ll be honing that participation in the next few months.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re interested in this? In us? In fucking any of this?” Brian voices in a subdued sort of panic.

“Yeah! What happens if we refuse?” Beverly asks.

Lecter glances at Alana before carefully revealing, “This technology, as we said, is military grade. That does not mean, however, that it stayed in the military. It does mean, however, that you three are privy to what are governmental secrets.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Will surmises.

“No, you do not. Unless your psych eval says otherwise. In which case, we’ll evaluate you until you are fit to participate,” Jack answers, a bit snide, a bit proud.

Will grips Brian by the wrist under table, in part to reassure him, in part to stop his annoying shaking.

 

* * *

 

Contrary to Jack’s dream, Brian and Will do not end up rooming together. Instead he is placed in a room by himself next to Beverly’s, while Brian bunks with James Price — who insists on “Just Jimmy, for fuck’s sake” — in a poorly air conditioned double across the building. He receives a message in the begrudgingly joined group chat with Brian and Beverly.

Beverly: my room fucking sucks

Will: our rooms are exactly the same. they’re fine.

Beverly: no omg you don’t get it im alone and i hate that we’re stuck here

Brian: at least you don’t have a nerd as ur damn roommate

Brian: he knows too many fun facts

Beverly: u r a nerd too so

Will: wow.

Beverly: anyways

Beverly: is there a way out of this

Will: I don’t see one.

Will: Jack seems pretty set on keeping us here. Dr. Bloom might be easier to deal with, but she’s tough

Brian: son of a bitch this is a problem

Brian: I should call my brother he’s a cop

Brian: no I shouldn’t goddamnit he’s an ass

Beverly: yeah he kinda is an ass

Will: back on topic here

Will: we signed all of those forms. there’s no getting out of that. they trapped us, basically

Brian: maybe if we do really badly on everything they ask us they’ll let us go

Beverly: that’s so stupid fuckin hell brian they’d see right through that

Beverly: Mr. Cheekbones would probably cut us

Will: Mr Cheekbones?

Beverly: yeah the creepy one

Brian: oh yeah idk what to even make of him

+1(571)555-0112: This is “Mr. Cheekbones.” I suggest further correspondence be done off the Academy’s local wifi network. We are capable of monitoring your data exchanges either way, but making an effort to be subtle is expected from intelligent students as yourself.

+1(571)555-0112: It would be beneficial to you three to rest. You have a long day tomorrow. Goodnight.

Brian: fuck.

 

* * *

 

Brian comes out of the private room looking a little off-kilter. The lines of a frown grace his features, and it’s unsettling to see him anything other than wry and springy. Will passes him a reassuring quirk of the mouth, hoping it’s not quite the grimace he knows it was before stepping in.

Doctor Lecter rests on a leather chair. He is carefully composed, a façade. The suit is painfully formal, Will thinks. In this weather, he suspects the material is thinner, but his own innocuous jeans and baseball tee seem excessive. Lecter sweeps his eyes across the floor until they meet Will’s. It’s a show, perhaps one to keep him from running away from what Lecter thinks he might perceive as frightening. Will isn’t so much afraid as he is suspicious.

“Hello, Will. Please sit."

Will slouches in the too-soft seat. He curls his shoulders in and ducks his gaze to rest at the vague floorspace between his feet and the doctor's.

"How are you today?"

He scoffs, "I've been better. A classic case of 'I did not sign up for this.'"

Lecter's sigh is minute, a controlled exhalation meant to convey an exact measure of mirth. "I'd say you are intimately familiar with this kind of disappointment."

"What... makes you say that, Doctor?"

"You speak in resignation rather than indignation."

"Was Brian indignant?"

Will can hear Hannibal's smile as he replies, "You know I'm not at liberty to discuss my other patients."

He almost rolls his eyes. "Are we your patients?"

"Technically speaking, no. I do value the expectance of privacy, given the circumstances of our meeting." He keeps his posture open as he flips through his notes. "I noticed something about you, Will. You are quite keen, quick, intelligent. Socially speaking, you are not quite so developed."

"Interaction is not my forte, as they say."

"Except with Ms. Katz."

"Beverly is a special exception. She didn't give me much choice." He lets a small smile escape.

Doctor Lecter's maw is all teeth. It sets Will on edge. "Ah, yes. Perhaps it would benefit you to forge other relationships during your time here. Isolation is not conducive to this type of work."

Will grimaces and averts his eyes towards the door, only for a second. "What do you suggest, Doctor? A friendship with Jimmy?"

He looks contemplative. "Maybe. Or you could talk to me, or Doctor Bloom. We are here for a reason, Will."

Will rests his chin on his hand. "I don't find you that interesting."

Hannibal's smile is back. "You will."

He isn't even sure what to say to that.

"I will clear you for this research. I trust you will come to me should you encounter any problems."

"Thank you."

He leaves without looking back. It wasn't quite a psych eval as it was an interview of some other sort. He shudders before heading off to his room.

 

* * *

 

Beverly: how was your thing

Will: strange. extremely short.

Will: nothing much about my mind state other than my social skills

Will: he thinks i have social anxiety

Brian: lucky. he asked me about an inferiority complex

Beverly: oh my god I'm laughing

Beverly: mine was about my aspirations and whatever

Will: i guess we're actually working here then

Brian: i guess we are

Beverly: they're still reading our shit guys

Brian: let them lol i feel like dr lecter saw all my damn secrets anyway

Beverly: that’s not fair only i get to know that you had a horrific perm for the first year of hebrew school

Brian: BEVERLY WTF

Will: please.

Will: it can’t be as bad as his hair now

Jimmy: lol yeah it sucks

Brian: GOD.

 

* * *

 

“Doctor Lecter. Where are Beverly and Brian?”

The doctor sits on a plush leather couch, fiddling with the tubes and needles attached to the PASIV.

“Ah. Will. Please come join me. Your friends are studying with a mentor. I believe Beverly is paired with Alana, and Brian is working with Mr. Price.”

Will slowly moves towards the couch. The PASIV, now that he looks at it, is very sleek. It has undergone some obvious aesthetic changes since the other day; it is even smaller, and the vials are a very faint yellow this time. 

Hannibal smiles at Will’s suspicion. “Today, we are working on building your dreams. The architecture, the mechanics of dreamscape. Miss Katz in particular, I hear, possesses a certain aptitude for the analytical, so the emphasis for you will be expansion rather than the technicalities. The drug this time will contain a touch, very slight, of DMT, the hallucinogen. It will be very much below the typical threshold for its effects, but it will be there to encourage active thinking.”

Will grimaces. The thought of triggering… something in his mind is unappealing.

“I see you’re apprehensive. Worry not. I am quite experienced in this. I will guide you.”

He inserts the IV line into both of their forearms, patting his knee in reassurance.

“Relax.”

 

* * *

 

Will opens his eyes to the sight of grace. Above him, angels and humans rest in various scenes of indulgent religion. He can almost hear the singing of the disciples, lining up flawed and devoted to serve for their righteousness. The colors press and bleed each in their given places. Harmonious. God and Adam reach towards each other, forever frozen in their positions immortalized by Michelangelo.

He turns to his right. Lecter is already there, dressed in a linen suit, admiring the handiwork of a great artist and his own ability to recollect it.

“Showing off, Doctor?”

With suppressed mirth, he replies, “With the work we do, it is healthy to show off at least a little. And please. Call me Hannibal.”

Will himself is wearing Timberlands and a leather jacket. Surprised at both the simplicity of the style and the theoretical cost, he lets loose a chuckle. It reminds him quite a bit of Beverly's own jacket, worn soft and scuffed in just the right places.

"Tell me, Hannibal. Why are we at the Sistine Chapel? What kind of research is taking place that you took me here?"

Hannibal motions for Will to walk with him out the heavy doors. The scene burns away into a lush forest. The smell of pine and redwood is thick, finely tuned and specific. Will thinks that perhaps he can smell the afterthoughts of a rain shower.

The sun permeates through the canopy enough to create spots of warmth. A mossy log in the clearing sits perfectly in the middle, surrounded by a fluttering crown of monarch butterflies. The detail is exquisite: every flower, every iridescent insect, is curated to serve a certain realism and a certain aesthetic. Time runs soft-shelled, bruised, and Will feels turned inside out. Hannibal's pride is almost tangible, but Will cannot bring himself to be irritated by it. He really has outdone himself; it feels endless.

Hannibal and Will sit, peaceful in the wake of lush nature and its constituents.

"The government developed this technology for the purposes of interrogation. We are going to further that. Gaining the means to certain secrets is difficult, but with the right amount of manipulation, it can be done." A pause. "But today, you will simply accustom yourself to the dreamspace and observe."

Will slowly stands, pacing around the artfully messy patch of sunlight, taking in the precise warmth. "If this is lucid dreaming, can't I just manipulate things as I see fit? The color of the butterflies, the brightness of the sun, isn't that mine?"

"Here, anything is yours. The mountains. The sea. Even the California redwoods. You will learn that the impossible is yours to experience. But I must warn you, manipulate the things your mind naturally rebels against and your subconscious will attempt to shock you into waking," Hannibal says, absently picking a daisy from the wild grass beneath him.

As if moved by a shock of electricity, Will suddenly stumbles backwards. A large bear, brown and lumbering, peers from behind the trees about forty feet away. She stares at Will as if assessing whether or not he is worth the curiosity.

"Hannibal. Will that hurt us? Is that what you mean by shocking me into waking up?" he whispers, wandering closer to Hannibal's side.

Hannibal chuckles. "Oh no. Our subconsciouses are capable of far worse than bears. I find that humans are the ones we must fear, not the animals. Go on. She is gentle. No harm will come to you."

Will eyes him with unbridled suspicion as he slowly extracts himself from the doctor. The bear snorts, shaking herself, before coming closer. She paws at a passing bee, distracted.

He takes care to exercise deference, even if it is just a dream, to the majestic animal. If she is anything like the man now behind him, she will be proud, especially because she is a foot taller than he is. His courtesy costs nothing. Disrespect could be expensive.

“Hey. It’s okay. You and I are equals.”

He extends a hand and lets her sniff. Her eyes meet his, and he feels the air around him warm with his delight. He sinks a hand into her soft fur, coming closer and closer until his face is pressed to her cheek. The sensation is novel, new, a breath of fresh air. He cannot help the smile nor the sigh of contentment. She is happy to let him shower her with attention. The bear’s language is in touch and affection, two things he can offer her much of.

Will turns to Hannibal, almost forgetting that he isn't alone. He offers a small smile. Hannibal's face is almost stricken with admiration. He is unabashed in his observance. His delight shows in the thickened foliage around Will.

"The California redwood is a marvelous organism. It is ancient and has heard the songs of many birds and given shade to many creatures in its day. I wonder, though, if it has seen something quite like this."

Will feels the tops of his cheek dust rosy, his chest fit to burst, so he turns his face into her fur once more. He ignores the softening sunlight and the gentle breeze.

"Probably not. Bears usually don't enjoy college students’ hugs,” he mumbles sleepily.

"Why they would not, I do not think I know."

Before Will can muster a response, the slow notes of Chopin hover overhead.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in his room, he can see more clearly, his mind uncluttered from the complexity of spending what felt like hours dreaming. It was just a few minutes on the surface, but every second down there was spent indulging in lush sensory input.

Beverly sits with her head pillowed in Will's lap. Her wavy hair flows everywhere, a fountain black as pitch dripping off the valleys of Will's thighs. Brian lays on his bed, peering at them upside down. Will doesn’t mind.

"Jimmy took Brian to New Zealand to show him the kiwis," she remarks. "Apparently, he was supposed to be teaching him about the chemistry of dreamshare but couldn't resist the fucking kiwis. What a bunch of nerds. Alana and I went to D.C., and I got to search her office for her favorite color.”

"Brian does love his knowledge. He feels that it gives him a permit to some imaginary place in life,” Will snorts.

Will senses her eye roll before he sees it, and he imagines it moves her entire head with its force. “Your annoyance is simply astounding, buddy.”

“Yeah, Will. You’re always so grumpy at me,” he mutters.

“I can’t help it. I feel things. I feel people. He projects insecurity.”

“Hey. Brian isn’t bad. If he was, I wouldn’t have kept him around all this time,” she replies, gesturing vaguely to her gaudily decorated violin case covered in stickers detailing much of their exploits. “Anyways. How was your dream? Let me guess. He took you to a fancy museum. Or his rich European family’s mausoleum. An MIT physics lecture hall.”

Will tilts his head back and tips his eyes towards the window. “Neither,” he whispers. “He took me to the Sistine Chapel and then NorCal.”

Beverly sits up, eyes wide and burning bright with curiosity. “Really? What was it like? The Sistine Chapel is supposed to be like really incredible, so I mean this guy must have put a lot of effort into remembering it, right?”

Brian looks like he might herniate himself. “Oh my god. Will. That’s… so weird.”

He allows a lip to curve up in a slight smile. “It was like seeing the world as Coleridge would have seen it, except… it was like Hannibal was showing off.”

“Coleridge? Xanadu and a damsel in dulcimer Coleridge? Shit, man, he was pulling out all the stops.” Beverly beams with excitement.

Will allows himself to tease her a bit more with the details. “Or like Rimbaud. I feel like I was in the spot where the sun meets the sea, and just stayed there.”

She flops her head back into his lap. “I really like this dreamshare stuff. It’s cool.”

A grimace pulls at his chin. “Hannibal said that the government uses this to take people’s secrets. To investigate. I don’t know if it is going to stay easy like this.”

Brian sighs. “I guess it’s for the greater good, yeah?”

Beverly reaches up to ruffle his short curls. “You’re a smart dude. We’re smart. Brian included. We’ll be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> will finds out a few things.

Will tears off after Beverly, feet pounding against the pavement. She laughs, loud and raucous, and her hair bounces with her bounds. He thinks she could be a lion, the way she pursues her prize.

"I know where it is!" she screams, giddy with excitement.

They traverse several avenues in the space of what feels like mere minutes, the scenery a wash of black and grey and pops of neon. He watches Beverly's arms pump, encased in her signature leather jacket, and it feels familiar.

Will rolls his eyes and follows her into Central Park. A few passerby stare, but they mostly go back to their activities on the grass.

Beverly tosses a smile over her shoulder as she winks at him with opalescent glee. Her Vans are unnaturally clean, even with all the dirt she kicks up, and paired with her bright blue, linen shorts and white cotton button-down, she looks incongruously lovely sprinting through New York.

She stops at the base of a rock formation, and rummages through the detritus as Will curves around her to reach almost instinctively into a hole in a nearby tree.

Brian climbs out from his spot with Alana, looking uncomfortable and a little scared. Will thinks it's Alana's severe pantsuit.

"You guys found it yet?" he asks.

Beverly's grin is absolutely devious as she scrambles up the rocks, childlike.

"Found it, ya asshole!" she cries, holding out a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_.

Alana nods. "Good job, Beverly." She turns to Brian. "You have good taste in literature."

Brian is indignant as he pouts. "Didn't think you'd actually find it."

Will pulls himself up to stand with them and holds out his finding. "I didn't find your favorite book, but it seems I found something of merit."

It is a fragile box with a glass top, bordered with gold leaf all along the wood like smoke tendrils. Mother of pearl inlays bloom in peonies and hyacinth. Behind the glass plate is the interior lined with velvet and a set of strings.

Beverly peers from behind Will's shoulder. "Strings?"

Alana smiles. "They mean something, don't they?"

Brian blushes a furious scarlet, and the sky spills vivid amethyst, plumped with peach-rimmed clouds in fervent ecstasy. Fireflies diffuse across the lawn like powdered light through a cherry quartz. Will raises an eyebrow.

“I just really like music, okay?” he says, face ruddy and voice trembly in a way that betrays his embarrassment and his lies.

Beverly smirks and moves to snatch the box away, saying, “You play cello, ya idiot. These are for violin.”

As her fingers brush the gilded lid, she retracts with a yelp, the box immediately splintering away into a graphite dust slipping through Will’s fingers. She pouts, and Alana eyes Brian curiously.

“What the hell, man!” she cries, nursing her hand close.

Brian seems almost sick with worry, pale and uncertain. “Oh, Jesus, I can’t even dream right. I hurt Beverly-“

Alana interrupts, “Brian. You are fine. Our subconscious hides things, and it is normal to have a manifested reaction to someone interacting with things.” She gestures at Beverly. “Perhaps the box is of significance to you two?”

Beverly shakes her head. “Nope. Never saw that box ever.”

Brian pulls closer to Will, not quite touching him, but close enough for Will to tangibly sense his anxiety. He decides to be merciful.

“We found the secret, Alana. Is there anything you want to tell us about that?” he asks, blunt.

She sighs. “Beverly was quite successful. But Brian’s recollection of New York is a little compacted, so it was a little easier to navigate than, say, Jack’s creation of New York would be; Jack’s would definitely be plainer but more expansive.” Alana looks around, eyes blue like morning glory. “In any case, Brian’s emotions manifest pretty clearly. His dreams are flexible, but not quite suited for technical extractions.”

Beverly isn’t listening, Will notes. Her gaze floats over the skyscrapers, clean cut against the sky. She smiles.

“How did you find the book, Beverly?” he asks.

She flips absent-mindedly through its pages, and replies, “Ah. Easy. Figured Brian was a bit of a sensitive soul, so I went to Central Park. His parents brought him here like a fuck ton of years ago.”

Brian dejectedly shuffles his feet in the dirt. “Whatever, man. I like it here.”

Alana rolls her eyes and shares a strange look with Will. “Anyway, we’re done here. We should be surfacing about… now."

 

* * *

 

Will takes slow steps through the Academy library. The lights here skew dim at this time of night, and the after hours access granted to him conveniently gives him time to fill the unwanted staggerings in his sleep schedule due to dreamshare. The books, he thinks, mute the transmission of sound, creating a chamber of solid silence around him. He drags a light finger over the spines.

"Will. You are up late."

He startles, nearly toppling a large shelf. He turns around to see an almost casually dressed Hannibal looking curiously at him, the long lines of him softened like blended oil pastel. He has a jacket draped over his shoulder. His neutral green button down has sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his black slacks seem less-than-perfectly stiff, and it really shouldn't be so pleasing to Will, the way Hannibal seems unguarded and unforgivably foreign and familiar to his addled brain.

"I couldn't sleep," he whispers, eyes traveling directly to his feet.

Hannibal chuckles. "The library is empty tonight, Will. No need to whisper." He motions for Will to walk with him deeper into the aisles. "Interesting choice for spending your time. Mr. Price informed me that Brian spends his time playing cello or video games, while Beverly usually practices violin or runs, sometimes with Brian in tow. And you, without fail, come here."

Will stuffs his hands into the pockets of his joggers. "Books are quiet. They don't invade like people do."

"You have not read good literature if a book has not occupied a place in your mind," he replies. He takes Will to the fiction section. "I particularly enjoy indulging in the works of Proust. _Du côté de chez Swann_."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Really? I would have taken you for a Thoreau guy."

Hannibal shakes his head, rounding a corner. "Oh, no. My tastes in literature are varied, though I enjoy the sensation of a tasteful read."

He rolls his eyes.

Hannibal leads them to a set of couches in the back corner of the small poetry section. Dust lines the shelves, and Will thinks he can feel the floor protest with how long it has been since it had to hold additional weight. They sit.

"How was your last session with Alana?" Hannibal asks.

Will takes a breath. "It was different."

Hannibal crosses his legs across from him. "How so? I understand it was Brian's dream."

Will lets his lids drop a bit, relaxing into his seat. "Brian's dreams are expansive in emotion and sensation, but the content is stilted," he starts. He remembers the vivid color and the shortened blocks up to Central Park. He remembers something else, too. "Beverly found Brian's secret, his favorite book."

Hannibal smiles. "Ah. Yes, I have heard that she is quite talented."

Will chuckles, short and more a coarse huff than anything. "Yeah. She's good."

"I sense you have something more to say."

"I just... I found something in Brian's dream that I wasn't supposed to," he says. He nervously clasps his hands together before settling them in his lap. "I found a box, so meticulously decorated, it was out of place."

Hannibal seems mildly intrigued. "Oh?"

"Yeah. It was fancy, with this glass top and violin strings inside. It burned Beverly and basically disintegrated when she touched it."

He sits forward in his seat, and his eyes feel so heavy in their gaze that Will has to resist the urge to fidget away.

Hannibal replies, "Sometimes the mind manifests material without our consent. In this case, it may be a number of things."

"Like?"

"Brian may harbor some unsettled thoughts towards Beverly," he says, nonchalant. “It could be a psychological anomaly, of course, but evidence suggests otherwise.”

Will purses his lips. "God."

Hannibal laughs. "This disturbs you?"

"Brian disturbs me all the time."

Hannibal seems almost crestfallen that he avoided the heart of the question. He changes the subject anyway. "Have you experimented with your dreamscapes yet?"

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal reaches behind him and absently grabs an anthology of poetry. “I wonder what your dreams could be like, Will, your core reflected in the finite yet boundless potential of a PASIV.”

Will chooses not to reply and listens instead to the steady strike and dissipation of their breaths against each other. He watches as Hannibal opens the book and smiles.

“Ah. I have always been quite partial to Rimbaud. He is overdone, but some things transcend the barrier of popularity,” he says. Hannibal’s eyes on him feel like a heavy hand. “A young author seized by the muses and cast away into the drama of a tumultuous affair, one wonders where he could have gone had he not met the poet Verlaine.”

Will considers. “He could have lived more happily, or continued to write. Or been just as reckless with less suffering.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I am quite inclined to disagree. A soul as entrenched in the tragic as his would have found a way to experience that pain all the same.”

Will thinks of a young Rimbaud, a poet bound by dreams and the ethereal, his age just a touch greater than his own, wild.

“Verlaine shot him, didn’t he?”

Hannibal closes the book. “He did. And then Rimbaud wrote _Une Saison en Enfer._ "

Will closes his eyes, suddenly drowsy, and the Hannibal behind his lids sits in his chair but with the forest behind him. The moonlight runs grey, and the trees seem like tar stains against the navy blue canvas, reaching spider-like towards the heavens. He gasps, just a little, as a bear moves to sit beside Hannibal.

"Will?" he asks.

Will nods, speechless.

Hannibal smiles, and it looks like a benediction.

"Would you like me to read to you?" he continues. He does not wait for an answer before he begins. "'Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead crowned with flowerets and with laurel, restlessly roll those precious balls, your eyes.'"

Will feels rocked, moved like Hannibal has him in his fist, and he drifts.

"'Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow. Your fangs gleam,'" Hannibal recites, voice muted and dripping like pitch.

Will presses further into his chair, sinking, sinking, and whispers without prompting, "'Your breast is like a lyre, tinklings circulate through your pale arms. Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.'"

The bear traverses the space to Will and bares her teeth before nosing against his cheek.

"'Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh, that second thigh, and that left leg,'" Hannibal finishes.

But Will doesn't really hear it, not in the way he was meant to. He sinks beneath the surface and greets the bear with a hand through her fur, and settles deeper into his mind when Hannibal slowly drapes his jacket over Will and leaves, steps too light to echo even now, in the quiet.

 

* * *

 

Beverly: will where were u bro

Will: fell asleep in the library

Will: why do you know i didn't come home last night

Beverly: i know everything

Jimmy: i told her lmao its my job to keep tabs on y'all

Brian: god jimmy get outta this chat why are you here

Beverly: anyway

Beverly: yeah u never fall asleep there

Will: it just happened

Beverly: that's a blatant and nefarious lie

Brian: yeah lol that sounds fake

Jimmy: spill the beans i love gossip

Will: i don't know i ran into dr lecter

Beverly: CHEEKBONES?

Will: yeah

Brian: omg will that's something

Beverly: i don't really like him

Jimmy: im telling on you

Beverly: you are so. much.

Beverly: but yeah will he's weird and idk what his deal is

Will: we just talked about poetry

Brian: oh my god

Brian: will

Brian: that's

Beverly: you broke brian

Will: leave me alone please

Doctor Bloom: Just so you know, we still monitor your communications, and I hope you guys will watch what you say about your teachers. It's only July, and you have a month and a half left of this program.

Jimmy: get rekt guys hahahahahahaha

 

* * *

 

The next time they dream, after three weeks of dream theory and psychological evaluations, Will is meant to learn how to construct a stable dreamscape, so Will takes Hannibal to a home in Virginia.

Will colors the sky a deep navy, dotting it with stars scattered like crushed diamonds on dark marble. A stray cloud adorns the moon above with a muted mystery, and he feels almost invigorated under the light. The sound of frogs, bellowed from the deep organs of the ancient earth, obvious here away from the bustle of city life, ascends and descends with the curves of the gentle breeze. He even tries to replicate the smell of fallen leaves, warm dirt, and pine. Fireflies hover over the field in front of them like a luminous path straight to the gleaming solitary farmhouse, set ablaze with soft candle light against a darkly forested backdrop. Every so often, a car will pass by with a projection in the front seat, but it’s muted.

Standing outside under the moonlight, he feels safe.

He dresses himself and Hannibal in something comfortable — or, in Hannibal’s case, as comfortable as a soft knit sweater can get. Will dons an oversized sweatshirt — his dad’s U of L Lafayette one— and a pair of canvas sneakers. 

The inside of the house is distinctly small and comfortable. Hannibal examines the kitchen, the drawers, and the bedroom. He passes a finger over the end table, and it comes away with a light padding of grey dust.

“Impressive,” he remarks, flipping through an old copy of The Great Gatsby. “You even included an approximation of the text.”

Will smiles, “Most of it isn’t approximation. Eidetic memory has its perks. Along with the small fact that there’s a section in there I used to inform my coloring of the scene outside.”

Hannibal looks up at him, moving on to inspect the vase of dying flowers on the table. “And which section would that be?”

“That would be a secret, Doctor," he says, feeling oddly playful.

“Ah. It isn’t prudent to tempt a trained extractor with your secrets.”

“There’s a title for what you do? Is that why you split me, Brian, and Beverly up? To give us all a job?”

Hannibal sits at the table, and Will follows. “To an extent. We split you up to determine each of your strengths. There is still much we don’t know about the capabilities of dreamshare beyond the manipulation of the elements, but we hope that something will arise in each of you that perhaps will shed some light.”

Will purses his lips. "What is Brian's job?"

Hannibal smiles. "Mr. Zeller seems to be an adept chemist. His penchant for subjective analysis makes him a suitable fit for the job. He has a great deal of imagination."

Will slouches in his chair, relishing in the slight creak and give of the old wood. "I guess I'm okay at making my dreams so far if you don't have any complaints. Have a bit of imagination, but I'm not particularly 'a suitable fit' for any job."

"I'd say you display much promise. Tell me, Will. What inspired this dream? Where are we?"

He smiles and bathes in the sounds of woods for a moment before answering. "This was my grandmother's house in Wolftrap. She passed away when I was two years old, and my dad would take me up here during the summers when I was too young to work with him. He'd leave me with my old grandfather until he kicked the bucket when I was six. This house is their legacy, in a way." He closes his eyes to the moonlight. "I never really knew them. But I knew their home."

He can practically hear Hannibal's contemplation. "And your mother?"

"Left when I was an infant. This was her parents' house, and she obviously didn't want it. Maybe she inherited their alcoholism. Couldn't look away from the bottle long enough to care. Maybe that's why she and my pa got together in the first place."

The shadows on the wall run inky blue like tendrils of smoke. He thinks they could extend to the sky, if he wanted them to. Across from him, Hannibal seems to be an extension of it. His gaze is inscrutable, almost clouded.

"You constructed this place with many intimate details. How did you accomplish that?"

"It wasn't really hard. I guess I just slipped into my mind's representation of my grandparents," he says, almost comfortably drowsy in the firelight.

Hannibal hums and looks out the window. "It seems you are well-equipped for dreamshare."

He shrugs. "Whatever gets me through the summer." Will then follows Hannibal's eyes to the picture frame on the kitchen counter. "Ah. Yeah. Beverly wanted a picture of Brian, her, and me. It's not really consistent with this place, because I haven't been here in years, but I guess my subconscious really wanted them here."

"You three are close, especially you and Miss Katz." Hannibal's gaze is carefully even, and Will isn't one to bait discomfort.

"Beverly is my closest friend. I think Brian is hers. We've become a functional unit, in a way."

"Describe her to me. I feel it may be beneficial in your therapy for you to develop aloud positive profiles of others to ease your social anxiety."

He tries to hide a grimace. "Well, Beverly is pretty magnetic. Everyone likes her, and those who don't can't find a reason why. She's sarcastic but not caustic. She... loves music. She's an artist. She's also technical and sharp. I remember her telling me she likes Queen and _Law and Order_. She's definitely an oldest child. I can see evidence of it all over the place like gravity."

Something rocks inside him, the turn of a pendulum.

"Will. Look at me," Hannibal gasps, reaching out towards his face.

"Whoa, buddy, a little close aren't ya?" He bites out, batting away his hand, tossing long, black hair over his shoulder. He's confused and a little indignant.

"Oh, Will. You have a gift." And he looks positively proud. "Will?" he asks.

He looks down at his hands and sees them steady and sure, nails painted a chipped aubergine. He's wearing a soft leather jacket. He feels different, in a different skin.

And suddenly it doesn't register right, and it feels like a vacuum is pressing him back into his real body, like submerging and emerging from a cloudy lake at the same time.

Hannibal is smiling and putting a hand over Will's trembling shoulder. "You became Beverly."

A droning din consumes the house, and the sky burns away into a bleeding maroon. The sound of several cars parking in the driveway startles him into motion. Hannibal stands and pushes a distraught Will behind him.

“It may be too late to stop your projections, Will. We either run, administer the kick to ourselves, or succumb to the projections. In any case, it will be painful,” Hannibal says.

“W-what?”

The door breaks off its hinges. A dozen people with every tool, every long-handled weapon, every fire arm, burst through. The faces of people from around Quantico, Harvard, and Louisiana stare back, and Will trips backwards. Their jaws unhinge, maws wide open, hungry.

Hannibal quick as lightning presses him to his front, and Will panics as he feels the press of a barrel to his temple.

Hannibal mutters, "Relax."

 

* * *

 

Will startles to a confused Alana's face staring at them from across the conference room table. She looks smart in her pantsuit, and it seems familiar and foreign in the early vestiges of awareness.

"Will?" she asks. "You're awake early."

Her face contorts with worry, and he has to look away. The closest he can manage is focusing on the lapel of her navy blazer. He clenches his jaw and rubs a hand over his eyes.

Hannibal replies for him, just emerging out of sleep. "Will experienced quite the unexpected phenomenon. Would you like to talk about it, Will?"

Alana shakes her head at Hannibal, running her gaze over Will's pale face and trembling body. "Not if he doesn't want to talk about it."

Will shakes his head and croaks out, "I don't know."

He feels turned inside out, like he has been soaking too long in hot water or like his eyes have been indelibly burned by the sight of a strange new color. Alana's concern only prods harder at his wounds.

Hannibal sighs and cautiously puts a hand on his shoulder. "I insist on communicating to Alana at the very least what happened with Miss Katz."

Alana furrows her brows. "What happened with Beverly? Should I get her?"

He replies, "No," and it feels like it has been scraped from his throat. He wants Beverly's eclectic presence and her fury, but he knows it would burn him. "I just... Something happened in there. Can't explain it."

He can feel the gentle rub of Hannibal's thumb just barely against the exposed skin at his neck.

Hannibal locks eyes with Alana and says very carefully, "Will may have the capacity to be a forger."

Alana's face seems to pale and close all at once. She sends a quick text to Jack before addressing Hannibal.

"Are you sure?" she asks. She holds his gaze far too long.

Hannibal looks at Will, and Will sees a dark lake, poured into the ether like tar. The surface is placid, but something swims beneath. It's both a reassurance and an omen.

"Yes."

Then Jack storms in like an excited bull.

 

* * *

 

Beverly and Brian rush after him, and he resolutely tries to ignore the guilt pooling like mud in the center of his chest as he drags his duffel to the curbside. His skin feels clammy, like he'd been sitting outside in the cold for too long.

"Will! You have to tell me what happened!" she demands. Her hair, up in a ponytail now, swishes behind her, wavy and wild. "Where are you going?"

He sighs and drags a hand over his eyes only to throw them back open, assaulted by the image of a dozen faces clawing for his attention. He can feel himself visibly jolt, and he hates it.

"Home," he replies. "Harvard."

Beverly presses a hand to Brian's chest, and he nods. He turns back around to head towards the dormitory building but not before sending a half smile in Will's direction.

"Why?" she asks, and she lowers her arms from where they were crossed against her chest. Her voice is even. It feels like Will has their friendship beneath his heel.

He looks at the space between their feet. "This isn't for me. I got too close."

"Like that tells me anything," Beverly snorts.

Will snaps, "It's the best I can say, okay?"  
She purses her lips, and Will immediately regrets it. "You never tell me anything-"  
"I try-"  
"Not hard enough!" she yells.

Will can see Alana watching them, lingering at the front of the Academy's administrative offices, and he sighs. "Beverly, please-"  
"No, Will!" she says. "You and I are friends, right?"  
And he thinks of their late nights and when they got drunk at Faneuil Hall and their nonsensical chats at midnight. "Yes."

"Then please, tell me something?" she pleads.

He feels the hot sting of tears. Humiliating. Bared open to her. "I wish I could."

He expects the slap of a comeback, something other than the hug she gives him. And she whispers straight into his ear, "Text me. See you back at Harvard."

 

* * *

 

To: Will Graham <grahamw@harvard.edu>

From: Hannibal Lecter <hanniballecter@leo.gov>

Subject: Apologies and Well Wishes

 

> Will,
> 
> I regret that you and I ended our acquaintance in such an unfortunate manner, and I offer any and all apologies to you for that. That being said, the nature of dreams is quite obscure, and your talents for dreamshare are unparalleled. Your feat in your latest dream -- forging, as it is called -- is extremely difficult to achieve, even after years of practice. And yet you did. You should be proud.
> 
> If you wish to someday return to dreamshare or perhaps discuss symbolist poetry, do not hesitate to contact me. I will be here.
> 
> Warm Regards,  
>  Hannibal Lecter, MD

 

* * *

  

Will sees Beverly again in September. And eventually, he stops thinking about the gaping maws of projections, the steel of a gun to his temple, Brian's box of violin strings, and the touch of a gentle bear against his skin. And he succeeds in school. And he sees Brian over the summers.

Until he graduates.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have work and school, so updates will be slow.


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